The Dead Of Summer

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘He felt a great need to have time alone,’ her husband added. ‘I think that’s why he loved running so much. He could be gone for hours. I know Vendela wasn’t always very happy about that.’

  ‘She thought he spent too much time away from her and the children,’ explained Katarina. ‘And that’s not so strange, since he worked so much,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘How often did he get depressed?’

  ‘Maybe a couple of times a year.’

  ‘Was he seeing a psychologist? Or was he on any kind of medication?’

  ‘Yes, he took anti-depressants,’ said Katarina.

  Her husband looked at her in surprise.

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘I didn’t want to worry you. I’m sorry.’

  Stig Bovide kept his eyes fixed on his wife. He pressed his lips together but didn’t say a word. Knutas changed the subject.

  ‘We know that recently Peter felt as if he was being watched. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No, we’ve really never heard anything about that.’ Stig Bovide’s voice had taken on a belligerent tone. ‘Why did he think he was being watched? And who actually told you that?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that at the moment. Are you sure that Peter never mentioned anything about this?’

  Stig Bovide leaped from his chair. ‘Can’t discuss it?’ he shouted. ‘What on earth do you mean by that? This is our son we’re talking about. Our son who was murdered! We’re his parents. Don’t you understand that?’ He pointed first at himself and then at his wife. ‘We demand that you tell us everything about the investigation. And I mean everything!’

  This sudden outburst caught Knutas off guard. Stig Bovide was now leaning over him, his face contorted with anger.

  ‘You come barging into our home two days after our son was found murdered, asking a lot of questions that you demand we answer. And then you refuse to tell us what our boy was mixed up in. Are you out of your mind? Get out of here! Get out!’

  He grabbed hold of Knutas’s shirt collar.

  ‘Calm down!’ cried Katarina. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  She managed to pull her husband away from Knutas, who quickly got to his feet.

  ‘I think we should continue this interview at some other time,’ muttered Knutas. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but we’re not at liberty to discuss the investigation. Not even with family members. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye. And again, please accept my condolences.’

  Katarina Bovide was still holding on to her husband’s arm as he glared fiercely at Knutas without saying another word. He was breathing hard and seemed to be having trouble regaining his composure. Knutas fled the stuffy room, grabbed his jacket and dashed out.

  All the grief and despair in the flat seemed to follow him.

  JOHAN WAS HAVING a hard time concentrating at work. Pia asked him what was wrong, but he didn’t feel like telling her what had happened. Not at the moment. Although she probably had her suspicions. Last night he and Madeleine had lingered on the street after the restaurant had closed, and she hadn’t gone with her colleague, Peter, back to their hotel. Who the fuck cares, he thought. Let Pia think whatever she likes. He was neither married nor engaged. Emma had broken off their engagement, and since they hadn’t been together in months, there was really no reason for him to feel guilty. She had pushed him away, yet he still felt miserable and didn’t understand how he could have behaved so despicably. He needed to talk to Maddie as soon as she arrived at the office.

  Grenfors, editor-in-chief of Regional News, rang from Stockholm. During the summertime he had to step in and actually get involved in the editing, which made no one happy, least of all himself. He discussed with Johan what had to be done for the day’s report.

  ‘I have a feeling that the police have no idea where to look,’ said Johan. ‘The murder seems to be a total mystery. On the surface at least, Peter Bovide appears to be a completely ordinary conscientious family man who loved his wife, worked hard and never drew much attention to himself.’

  ‘Have you talked to his parents?’

  ‘No,’ said Johan sharply, annoyed by the question. ‘Do you really think that’s acceptable? It’s only been two days since their son was found murdered. They must still be in a state of shock.’

  ‘Give it a try, anyway,’ Grenfors insisted. ‘There’s been nothing from them in the papers or on TV. We could be the first, and the national news-’

  ‘Enough with the national news,’ Johan interrupted him, tired of constantly sucking up to the national news big shots. ‘If they want something from the parents, let them do the interview. Maddie can pester the parents – I won’t.’

  He’d hardly finished his sentence before Madeleine came into the office. She cast an inquisitive glance at Johan.

  ‘I’ll ring you later,’ he snapped and put down the phone.

  ‘Hi,’ said Maddie. Her expression was both amused and not amused.

  ‘Hi.’

  For several seconds Johan considered what he should do, before deciding it was best to take the bull by the horns. He got up from his chair and was just about to ask Madeleine to step outside with him to have a talk when the phone rang. Pia picked it up. Judging by her expression and tone of voice, they could tell that she was listening to something important. She motioned for Johan to toss her a pen. Quickly she wrote down what the person on the other end of the line was saying. Pia looked so tense that Johan completely forgot what he’d been planning to say to Maddie. When the conversation was over, Pia slowly put down the phone.

  ‘Hold on a minute. This tip might be a good one.’

  Johan sat back down.

  ‘That was a girl I know, Anna, who works at Sofia’s Nails and Beauty here in town. A beauty salon. Anna is a manicurist, and she knows Vendela Bovide, in fact they’re best friends. Vendela works in the same place, on Saturdays.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Anna said that the two of them went out for dinner together just a week before the murder. Sort of a little farewell dinner before the summer holiday, because Vendela was going to be gone for a month.’

  ‘OK,’ said Johan impatiently.

  He cast a quick glance at Madeleine, who had dropped on to the chair next to him.

  ‘Vendela was nervous during the dinner because Peter had received some sort of threat. And now Anna doesn’t know what to do. She’s afraid Vendela might be in danger too.’

  ‘She should start by talking to us,’ suggested Johan.

  ‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

  WITH VENDELA BOVIDE’S permission, the police had searched the family home and the company office, but they hadn’t found anything of interest. The company computers had been confiscated and were being examined. On Wednesday afternoon, Wittberg and Jacobsson went to see the widow and interview her more extensively. She was now home from hospital, and they’d made an appointment to see her at three o’clock.

  The Bovides’ house was located north of town, on the road to Othem. A red-painted wooden house with white trim and a neatly raked gravel courtyard in front. On the lawn stood a blue trampoline; a short distance away was a playhouse, and a striped hammock hung between two apple trees. A low wooden fence surrounded the property. It looked freshly painted and the lawn had been recently mown.

  They rang the bell and listened to the hollow clang.

  They waited a while, then rang the bell again.

  Jacobsson tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She pushed it open and cautiously called out, ‘Hello.’ No answer.

  They stepped into the front hall, which was hot and stuffy.

  ‘I’ll check upstairs, while you have a look around down here,’ said Wittberg and then headed for the stairs.

  The kitchen was off to the left; Jacobsson peeked inside. Light-coloured shutters on the windows, curtains with a floral pattern and windowsills crowded with flower pots. The flowers were wilting, as if they ha
dn’t been watered in a while. Everything was shiny clean, but the house felt deserted. She went into the living room. The floor creaked under her feet. The room was quite large, with a hardwood floor, leather sofa, two armchairs, a TV and a bookshelf. Photographs of the two children adorned the walls.

  One by one, Jacobsson picked up the framed photos that stood on a shelf. Traditional wedding pictures taken by Hemlin’s photo studio in Visby, and a picture of Peter Bovide receiving a trophy. There was something about his expression and his crooked smile that Jacobsson didn’t like. Especially the look in his eyes, which was strangely vacant.

  ‘Find anything?’

  Wittberg had come back downstairs and was giving her an inquisitive look.

  ‘No. How about you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Jacobsson cast a glance at the Mora grandfather clock in the room. It was 3.15.

  ‘I wonder where she is. It seems strange to leave the door unlocked. Although I suppose they do that out here in the country.’

  Wittberg gave a start. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I heard a car.’

  They both stood still to listen. There was no doubt about it. They could hear a car engine outside.

  Quickly, they slipped out through the patio door and made their way to the back of the house. They had no desire to get caught sneaking about inside. Jacobsson peered round the corner and saw Vendela being dropped off by somebody she recognized. It was Johnny Ekwall, her husband’s business partner.

  After the car had driven off, Jacobsson and Wittberg went round to the front and rang the bell.

  It was a few moments before Vendela Bovide opened the door.

  She stared in surprise at the two police officers.

  ‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson and then introduced Wittberg. ‘We had agreed to meet today at three o’clock, but maybe you forgot?’

  The widow’s face flushed bright red.

  ‘Was that today? I thought it was tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Would this be a good time? It shouldn’t take very long.’

  Vendela Bovide hesitated.

  ‘Where are the children?’ asked Jacobsson, to break the stalemate.

  ‘They’re staying with Peter’s sister in Othem. I’m actually staying there too right now, but I had to come by here to take care of a few things. I can’t stand to sleep here yet.’

  ‘May we?’

  Jacobsson took a step forward.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Vendela sounded far from convinced that this would be a good idea, but she let them come in. She led the way to the living room.

  ‘Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said both officers in unison. It was hot, and they were thirsty.

  Vendela came back in a few minutes with a pitcher of juice and glasses.

  ‘Who was it that dropped you off outside?’

  Vendela looked down as she filled their glasses.

  ‘That was Johnny from the company. He’s so nice and helpful.’

  Jacobsson gave her a searching look.

  ‘It turns out the gun that was used to kill your husband was Russian,’ said Wittberg. ‘So we’re wondering whether your husband had any contact with Russians.’

  ‘Russian?’ Vendela’s voice quavered slightly. ‘The gun was Russian?’

  ‘Yes. Did your husband have any contact with Russians or anyone from other Eastern European countries? A lot of them come here as guest workers, especially in the construction business.’

  ‘Sure. He did have some part-time employees, from Poland at any rate. But I don’t know about Russia. Peter handled all the company business. I didn’t get involved. He took care of everything himself.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about any of these guest workers?’

  ‘No. He spent so much time at work, and we tried to avoid talking about the company here at home.’

  ‘So you don’t know anything about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As we mentioned earlier, apparently, during the spring and early summer Peter felt that he was being watched. He also received some anonymous phone calls,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Are you sure you don’t remember hearing anything?’

  ‘Yes, I am. He never mentioned anything like that. I would have remembered it if he did.’

  Jacobsson was convinced that Vendela Bovide was lying. She looked the widow in the eye and repeated the question one last time.

  ‘So he never mentioned that he felt that someone was spying on him or following him?’

  ‘No. But if that’s really true, I’m sure he would have told me about it. We talked about everything.’

  ‘Except for company business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much time did he spend at the office?’ asked Wittberg.

  ‘I suppose you could say that he was there a lot. Like all small-business owners. He would leave the house early in the morning, but he came home for lunch if he was working in the office or at a construction site nearby. Then he usually got home around six or seven. Sometimes he worked in the evening. Mostly with the accounts; he put together bids and things like that.’

  ‘What about at weekends?’

  ‘He was usually home.’

  ‘What sort of marriage did you have? What were your feelings for him?’

  ‘I loved him. Now that he’s dead, I don’t feel like living any more. It’s only because of the children that I’m trying to go on.’

  She spoke the words in a voice that was dry and matter-of-fact, as if discussing some trivial matter. Yet when it came to Vendela’s feelings for her husband, there was something in her voice that made both Wittberg and Jacobsson believe what she said.

  THE SALON CALLED Sofia’s Nails and Beauty was located on a side street to Hästgatan, a bit off the main tourist path.

  Roses clung to the rough façade, and lying on the worn stone steps outside the front entrance was an orange cat, basking in the sun. A bell jingled as Johan and Pia stepped inside, and the strong scent of a floral perfume overwhelmed them.

  ‘It smells like bubble bath in here,’ Pia whispered in Johan’s ear.

  Three sturdy wooden tables stood along the walls, covered with terry-cloth towels in pastel colours, and small pots and jars attractively arranged. Seated on either side of one of the tables were two young women. One was holding out her hands so the other woman could file and polish her nails. They were so immersed in their conversation that they didn’t even turn round to see who had come in. From hidden speakers came the sound of gentle eastern Mediterranean music.

  In the very back of the room they saw an old-fashioned cash register on a counter. Behind it sat another woman with her head bowed as she wrote something in a book. She glanced up as they approached.

  ‘Hi, Pia!’

  The woman behind the counter wore a blue linen dress, and her curly blond hair was pinned up in a bun. She stood up to give Pia a hug and then shook hands with Johan.

  ‘Let’s go over to the café next door so we can talk in peace.’

  As they sat down at a table in the café’s garden, Anna cast a nervous glance at Pia’s camera.

  ‘This isn’t going to be on TV, is it? Because I don’t want any part of that.’

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ said Johan soothingly. ‘We won’t use anything that you’d rather not have included. We always protect our sources. Nobody needs to know that what we found out came from you.’

  ‘Promise me that.’

  ‘Sure. Of course we promise,’ said Pia. ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘So how was Peter Bovide being threatened?’ asked Johan.

  ‘He had had anonymous phone calls, both at home and at work. But that’s not the worst thing. Just a few days before Vendela and I went out to have our last dinner together before the summer holiday, several unpleasant types showed up at their house really late at night.’


  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘They didn’t go inside. They talked to Peter out in the front garden, apparently for quite a long time. Vendela said that when he came back into the house, he was very upset.’

  ‘Did he tell her who they were?’

  ‘No, but they spoke broken English. Vendela thought they might be from Finland or the Baltics.’

  ‘Why did they threaten him?’

  ‘He said that the company was having problems at one of the construction jobs they had taken on, but that everything was going to be fine. He hadn’t received payment from the person who had contracted the job, and so he didn’t have any money to pay the workers. And apparently it was a really big project.’

  ‘Did Vendela have any idea what project it was? Or which building site?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Do the police know about this?’

  ‘No. She didn’t want to say anything because she’s afraid everything would start to unravel.’

  Anna leaned forward.

  ‘I think it has to do with illegal workers,’ she whispered.

  ‘You still need to go to the police and tell them what you know. This could be a serious matter,’ said Johan. ‘And in our report tonight, we’re going to mention the fact that Peter Bovide was being threatened. Although, as I said, we won’t say where we got the information.’

  ‘Good. Vendela doesn’t know that Pia and I are friends, so I don’t think she’ll realize that I told you about this. But I actually don’t care,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll ring the police as soon as I get back to the salon. And to hell with what she thinks. The only reason I’m telling anybody about this at all is to protect her.’

  She shrugged and tried to look like she didn’t care, but it was obvious how worried she was.

  ‘I’m sure everything will work out,’ said Pia.

  ‘It’s just all so awful,’ murmured Anna. ‘I feel so bad about Peter. And so sorry for Vendela. And their kids.’

  More questions began swarming through Johan’s mind. Was it here, at this café table, that they had discovered the motive for Peter Bovide’s murder? Was Vendela’s life in danger too? How should he deal with the information?